“Only as a miracle,” said her well-informed younger sister; “I’ve thought all along it was part of a love intrigue.”

The boy who had so much interest and speculation centred on him was on the point of departing with his purchases when he was waylaid by Jimmy, the nephew-apprentice, who, from his post at the cheese and bacon counter, commanded a good view of the street.

“We have some very fine Jaffa oranges,” he said hurriedly, pointing to a corner where they were stored, behind a high rampart of biscuit tins.  There was evidently more in the remark than met the ear.  The boy flew at the oranges with the enthusiasm of a ferret finding a rabbit family at home after a long day of fruitless subterranean research.  Almost at the same moment the bearded stranger stalked into the shop, and flung an order for a pound of dates and a tin of the best Smyrna halva across the counter.  The most adventurous housewife in the locality had never heard of halva, but Mr. Scarrick was apparently able to produce the best Smyrna variety of it without a moment’s hesitation.

“We might be living in the Arabian Nights,” said Miss Fritten, excitedly.

“Hush!  Listen,” beseeched Mrs. Greyes.

“Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here to-day?” asked the stranger.

“We’ve had rather more people than usual in the shop to-day,” said Mr. Scarrick, “but I can’t recall a boy such as you describe.”

Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends.  It was, of course, deplorable that any one should treat the truth as an article temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratified that the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick’s traffic in falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.

“I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the absence of colouring matter in the jam,” whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes tragically.

The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and upturned astrachan collar.  After a cautious interval the seeker after oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements.  He, too, took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and gossip laden customers.  It was Emily Yorling’s “day”, and most of the shoppers made their way to her drawing-room.  To go direct from a shopping expedition to a tea party was what was known locally as “living in a whirl”.